


Home Again

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Winning is Easy; Governing's Harder [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, F/M, Tabristair - Freeform, Warden Alistair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 04:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13000248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: After a month in the field, Aeron Tabris returns to almost the perfect homecoming.





	Home Again

It has been a long month.

Aeron Tabris rides into Vigil’s Keep ready to crawl into bed and sleep for at least the next month, maybe two. Every part of her body throbs with a steady, dull ache. There must be _at least_ three layers of grime coating her clothes, her skin, her hair. Rivers and lakes be damned; nothing but a good, long, hot bath will do right now—following that, a good, hot meal.

(And then, once she has Alistair completely to herself, some good, hot—)

“Commander! Welcome home!” The stable master comes running up to meet her just inside the gate. “How was your time in Krocari Wilds?”

“Productive.” Aeron is grateful that he helps her unseat from the saddle. She pats a hand to the horse’s shoulder. “Make sure she gets a thorough wash and a solid meal. Oh, and, ah, get her some fresh apples as a treat, would you? The old girl’s certainly earned it on this trip.”

He takes the reins with a small nod. “Of course, Commander. Shall I have your bags sent up to your quarters?”

“Please.” Aeron manages a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Yes, it has been a long month. Necessary, productive—effective, even!—but much too long. Hard. It's very good to be home again, back among the familiar and the routine. As Aeron travels towards the main building, her Wardens call out warm welcomes. Newer ones stop and formally salute, and Aeron lifts a hand of acknowledgment towards them, though the gesture takes effort.

In the main hall, Shepard comes bounding up to her, excited barks echoing into the rafters.

“Ooh! Hello my boy! Did you miss me? Hm? Did you? You did!” Aeron kneels down and scratches behind the mabari’s ears, accepting all his eager kisses and gentle headbutts. “Oh, I missed you, too. I did. And look—look, I brought you something—look—”

It takes a moment of digging through her coat pockets before she finds it; a featureless doll made of leather and cording, with a length of braided cord coming out from the head. Shepard sniffs at it excitedly. He opens his massive jaw and, with an impressive amount of gentleness, takes the doll from her hand and trots away. Aeron watches as Shepard crosses paths with Nathaniel, who gives him a pat on the head before approaching with a smile of his own.

“I see you’ve been received by the head of the welcoming committee!” he calls. “How was your time among the Chasind, Commander?”

“Busy.” Aeron holds out her hands. “They never make anything easy for outsiders.”

Nathaniel offers a compassionate laugh as he helps his commander back to her feet. “Even ones they’ve previously declared worthy of respect?”

“Can’t really blame them, though, given their history.” She shakes her head. “Still, some good came of it. I’ve got their agreement to help us navigate the Frostbacks and further south. Now we just have to see if those expeditions pay off.”

“That’s good news!”

“Yes, it is.”

But that is not on her mind right now; instead, her eyes scan the main hall, looking for one face in particular—

Nathaniel clears his throat. An apologetic expression is on his features. “You’ve missed him by a day, I’m afraid.”

Aeron’s heart sinks with disappointment. “You’re having me on. By a _day?_ ”

“Believe me, he wasn't happy about leaving, either. I do think he said he left a note in your office—” He cuts himself off with a sound like he has just recalled something important. “—but I wasn’t supposed to mention that until _after_ you'd rested and had a proper meal.”

“I bet he also said it wouldn't matter, that I would deduce he left me one and go looking for it—”

“As a matter of fact—” Nathaniel starts.

“Alistair knows me so well, bless him.” Even dead on her feet, all thoughts of self-care go on hold. “Walk with me, Howe. Tell me what you know.”

“I’m not certain there’s much to tell. I mean, I know it was the Arl of Redcliffe that summoned Alistair via messenger—”

“Eamon?” Aeron stops short. Her long ears twitch upward. “Are you sure?”

“As your hair is white, Commander.” When she does not respond with her normal level of amusement, Nathaniel continues. “The envelope had the arl’s seal pressed into the wax. The seneschal verified it himself.”

“What could that man possibly want of my husband _this_ time?” She doesn't bother to keep the flash of exhaustion-fueled anger from her voice. “Has he forgotten ‘Warden’ doesn’t translate to ‘servant at your beck and call?’”

“I’m certain Alistair will remind him of it once he gets there.” Nathaniel keeps her quicker pace easily—the mark of a trained rogue, surely. “The messenger would answer nothing beyond the fact that he’d come from the arl’s estate at Denerim and that he could not give up the letter to anyone but Alistair. Oghren wanted to throw him in a cell for a while, to see if that would make him more talkative—”

Despite her current mood, Aeron laughs. “And?”

“We didn’t. Figured it would be a bad look.”

“Of course. So what then? What happened next?”

“Soon as Alistair came in from morning training with the initiates, the messenger put the letter in Alistair’s hand and waited for a response.”

“And? How did he seem to you after he read it?”

“Well, he looked concerned, but—” Nathaniel’s redoubles on his apologetic expression. “He sent the messenger back to Denerim with word that he would be there, packed himself a small bag and rode out—”

“And he didn't say _why_?” asks Aeron. “Not even a hint as to what Eamon wanted of him?”

Nathaniel shakes his head. “I’m sorry. He left me in charge as Acting Commander…” After a moment’s pause he adds, “Surely, you won't mind my saying that it makes me even happier that you’re home again.”

A grin quirks at her lips. “Still not fond of being that close to power, are we?”

“We're both aware of its potentially corrupting nature,” Nathaniel tells her. “Some of us…too aware, perhaps.”

“That is precisely why we trust you, Howe.” Aeron pats him on the arm. “And to think, there was once a time you were outright daring me to kill you!”

He laughs. “We’ve certainly come quite a way, haven’t we?”

“Definitely one of my better gambles, that was…” She takes in a breath and sighs. “Do you think you can play A.C. for another day? Just on the smaller matters. Bigger things, send them to me. I’ll scowl at them ‘til they go away.”

Nathaniel laughs again, but nods. “Of course, I can.”

“Then I will be in my office, reading the letter from my husband that I don't yet know about.”

“Very well.” He nods again. “The cook’s probably been tipped off already. I'll tell him you’re taking whatever special welcome home meal he’s got planned in your office.”

“You are too kind to me, Howe.” Aeron pulls him down sideways to kiss his cheek. “Much too kind.”

Ideally, she should throw herself into the nearest container full of warm water and soap, but with this development of Alistair’s absence, it will be enough for the moment to shed the outer layers and sit down in a comfortable chair. This is not the first time they’ve missed each other. Usually, it involves darkspawn or the Taint surfacing in some unfortunate little hamlet. Other times, when it’s simply business in Amaranthine, it results in one of them riding out to meet the other at the tavern.

But this…

Aeron tries to recall the quickest route to Redcliffe. The resulting headache that starts at the back of her head forces her to reconsider. As much as she misses Alistair, going to Redcliffe after a month among the Chasind is not worth it. She has none of the energy required to pretend she wants to be there, where the inescapable fact of the matter is that Eamon _tolerates_ her, at best, and Aeron would sooner live in the Deep Roads than fully trust him. Even now—with his _supposed_ “endless gratitude” towards their rescue during the Blight and his _supposed_ “full acceptance” of her marriage to Alistair—she knows full well that Eamon Guerrin would sooner take a broodmother’s tentacle up the back end than admit she offers more to Alistair than encouragement and a warm bed.

(Oh yes, she has seen the plays—the ones Arl Eamon likes to commission during the feast days celebrating the Blight’s end. How nobly reluctant they always make Alistair seem when he relinquishes the throne! Hardly is there ever a single dry eye in all the audience!

At least the plays in Denerim are more accurate, barring the occasional liberty—for their Maker forbid Calenhad’s descendant be an _inexperienced virgin_ —but then, the playwrights there are more likely to treat Leliana’s tales and songs as gospel.)

So forget riding to Redcliffe. Aeron peels off her gloves and shoves them into a pocket of the traveling coat she next shrugs out of and hangs on the wall. She lands heavily in her desk chair. Her spine and joints pop and crack as she removes her boots. With sore arms, Aeron unties her hair ribbon and pulls out every pin she can bother to find. If only Alistair were here to give her head a good, thorough _scratch_ …

But he is not.

Because he is on his way to Denerim.

Because of _Arl Eamon_.

She briefly wonders if Zevran might be home. Nathaniel would have said as much if he was, wouldn't he? (Not that being busy in the Keep has ever kept her Crow from running up to greet her…) It isn't quite the same when Zevran does it, but it's still soothing enough to put her to sleep.

But never mind what she can't have; Aeron has a letter lying open in front of her, Alistair’s neat, blocky handwriting unmistakable.

> _Aeron, if you're reading this, I'm either in or on my way to Denerim and I feel terrible about it. Maker knows I would rather be at home ready to welcome you back; unfortunately, his letter made it clear he would visit us otherwise and, let's be honest with ourselves, the Keep doesn't deserve the tension that creeps in when you're both under one roof._
> 
> _If we’re lucky, this whole thing should only take a week. I can certainly hope as much. Eamon’s gotten a bit better about these things…mostly…_
> 
> _Silver lining: I can stop in at the Alienage, see how your family’s doing. (Kind of wish I’d packed some candies for the little ones. Note to self—stop at the market first!) If you receive some parcels ahead of my return home, know that it’s because your father tried to send me home with more than I could carry again._
> 
> _Don’t worry too much about me. (You will. I know you will. At least try not to?) Get some rest. I don’t doubt you’ve earned it, and you’ll more than certainly need the energy when I’m home again. I promise you that._
> 
> _I love you. Always. I’ll see you soon._

Soon can't become true fast enough. Aeron sighs and folds up the letter. Any hope of learning what Arl Eamon wants this time will have to wait until he returns.

“Bugger it.” She runs her hands over her face. “Headache now, headache later; it's still a headache—” A knock at the door gets her attention. “Come in!”

The door is barely open before the scent of cooked food hits her nose; stewed rat and potatoes, unmistakable here as at home. Her appetite turns bottomless.

“If that is what I think it is, then I hope Alistair added a bonus to the cook's pay for all the trouble,” Aeron says, clearing her desk.

The soft laughter she gets in return makes her sit up straight. The door opens wider, the person enters pushing the meal cart, and Aeron shoots to her feet.

_“Alistair!”_

“Surprised?” He smiles, clearly proud of himself. “That is definitely surprise, isn’t it? It's been such a long time since I’ve—mmf!”

They stumble slightly into the hall as Aeron collides with Alistair, but neither of them notices nor minds. He holds Aeron tight against him, briefly lifting her off the floor. Even when the kiss ends and leaves them breathless and smiling, Alistair does not let her go.

“You cheeky, _sneaky_ bastard!” Aeron says at last, garnering more laughter. “You little—!” She kisses him again, unable to quell a soft moan. “You lied! You tricked me!”

“Ah— _technically_ , I did not lie,” Alistair tells her. “I did have to see Eamon, and I’ve only been back a few days. Still, this bit of secrecy has been worth it. The look on your face—”

“Oh, you think so _now_ , but just wait until I’m good and rested. We’ll see if you think it’s worth it, then.”

“Ooh! Is that so?”

“Mm-hm.”

An intrigued hum passes Alistair’s lips. A mischievous gleam lights his eyes. “I’m almost certain that I—”

Both of them start at the sound of a loud, deep growl. Aeron is the first to recognize it for what it is. She starts to laugh, pressing her face into his shoulder.

“First things first,” she tells him, holding up a finger. “Currently, that means quelling this hunger with that stew. But you’re on notice, Constable.”

Alistair takes her hand in his and kisses it. “I’ll be waiting on pins and needles, Commander.”


End file.
